


Words

by horselizard



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Dom/sub Play, Graphoerotica, M/M, Verbal Humiliation, Writing on Skin, Writing on the Body, mlm author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 11:12:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2226921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horselizard/pseuds/horselizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Words had weight to Rimmer. Lister had known that for a long time, from the way he hurled them like weapons, hoping they'd stick. It had come as no surprise, that first time he'd held him down in bed and hissed “smeghead” into his ear, to see his mouth fall open, to see the flush spread across his cheeks, to see his simulated breath quicken with want."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words

Words had weight to Rimmer. Lister had known that for a long time, from the way he hurled them like weapons, hoping they'd stick. It had come as no surprise, that first time he'd held him down in bed and hissed “smeghead” into his ear, to see his mouth fall open, to see the flush spread across his cheeks, to see his simulated breath quicken with want.

All through his life and death, words had stuck to him. The reprovals of his parents, the mockery of his brothers and classmates, the damning pronouncements of his colleagues and superiors. And the word which had stuck most firmly of all was “hologram”.

Branded on his forehead, the single embossed letter that reminded him constantly: he was a “dirty deadie”. He had become obsessed with it; Lister knew that very well. If he hadn't guessed from the way he always fiddled with it, fidgeted with it, pressed his fingers against it as though one day he might just cause it to fall off, he was left in no doubt one drink-sodden evening some weeks after the holoship incident. In words which had since become his drunken mantra, he had, so to speak, spelled it out.

Rimmer always had a pen. And one day, Lister had fished it out from its pocket, from where his uniform lay discarded on the floor. He'd held him down by the hair, held him still, and extended the branding to “Hopeless”.

He'd been disbelieving at first, then bewildered; then he'd worked it out, the sequence of clumsy lines being pressed against his skin, and his face had slowly turned scarlet. For good measure, Lister had followed it up by scrawling “Halfwit” and “Hideous failure” across his chest.

(The impact was lessened slightly by his inability to spell “Hideous”.)

There were words which had got under Rimmer's skin over the years, words which crept around inside his head. When Lister spat them at him, gave them a voice, gave them a manifestation, it was a release... but it was short-lived. They didn't stick, they just pricked him once and then sank straight back down inside him. But marking them _on_ his skin, _on_ his head, brought them out once and for all.

He would look down at his body, defaced as if permanently by the caption of his worthlessness, and something inside him would relax. “Arsehole”, “Useless”, “Bonehead”: there it was, written for all to see, in biro or watercolour or (on one very memorable occasion) chocolate sauce. If it could no longer be hidden, he no longer needed to hide. Even when he couldn't see it, just knowing it was there, knowing that Lister had left his candid, contemptuous mark on him, gave him a feeling that was somehow stronger than his self-loathing.

But Lister's penmanship was scrappy and slapdash, and his imagination had its limits. Which was why, today, he was sitting with his feet propped up on a chair, casually slurping a lager, spectating as Rimmer sat on the lower bunk in nothing but undershirt and shorts, carrying out the task that had been assigned to him.

He had a neat copperplate hand, and a whole catalogue of neuroses swirling around in his head. And, slowly but surely, he was covering every inch of the skin on his arms and legs with the insults he thought he deserved.

Lister got up and leaned over him, peering approvingly at the reams of invective, as he painstakingly completed the final paragraph on his right forearm, non-dominant hand trembling with concentration. He popped the cap back on the pen, and looked up at Lister questioningly.

“Good work,” Lister commented. “Go on, then.”

Rimmer pulled on his uniform, and prepared to go about his day.


End file.
